The Nutcracker
by UnderworldPomegranate
Summary: A tribute to Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite. Oneshot.


For the first month after Christine left, Erik was well on his way to dying. He decided that, as his life had been the definition of melodrama to this point, he may as well die of love in true operatic style. Then the Persian had to turn up at the most inopportune moment and discourteously nurse him back to health.

It wasn't until Christine had been gone for a year that Erik decided he needed something to do other than wander desolately about the fifth cellar. His creativity left when she did, so music and architecture weren't possible. Returning to his role as Opera Ghost would be entirely too much work; his heart wasn't in it.

That left two options: assassin and magician. Magician was the more attractive option; Christine had taken his taste for killing as well. He refused to take off his mask, and he could no longer sing—all of his music left with Christine—so he would never be as great as he was in Persia. Still, he could make quite a name for himself.

He decided to call himself "Herr Drosselmeyer," after the character in Tchaikovsky's latest ballet. His creativity was gone to the point that he couldn't even come up with a name for himself, he thought bitterly, he who had once woven fantasy worlds for his student!

Creative or not, the name of Herr Drosselmeyer was soon all over Paris. The elite clamored to have the mysterious magician with mind-boggling tricks at their parties. He was paid a ludicrous amount; apparently, he was the latest fad.

As usual, several parties were competing for his services on the third Christmas Eve since Christine left. He was sorting through the letters, almost smiling, when one in elegant script caught his eye. It went through the usual mixture of begging and snobbery, similar enough to the others that they all could have been written by the same person, or the same formula. There was one thing that was different, though.

The signature.

_Comtesse Christine de Chagny_

He froze, staring at the letter. When he had started out as a magician, he had considered this possibility; he never decided what he would do. He still didn't know what to do. Could he survive seeing her again? Could he survive letting the opportunity go?

He was certain that the answer to both questions was "No."

Really, it was a foregone conclusion. He never had any choice where Christine was concerned; she drew him like a moth to light. Last time, he narrowly escaped being fried; this time, he wondered if he would be so lucky.

He wrote his standard refusal to all the others; Herr Drosselmeyer would be at the Chagny estate on Christmas Eve.

* * *

He waited, hidden behind a tree, until all the guests had arrived. They all had children with them; the letter had said that this was a family show. Of course, he would never have included anything morbid in his show for the Chagnys. Unless they had changed drastically, Christine and Raoul were children themselves.

After the last guests arrived, he went up to the ornately decorated door and knocked. He could easily have entered without troubling the maids, but that wasn't a skill that should be advertised. Levitating things was an acceptable talent; breaking and entering was not.

The maid stared at him, polite smile frozen on her face, until realization appeared behind her eyes. Magician; hired help; not a threat.

"G'wan in th' livin' room, then," she gestured. He bowed, and swept past her into the house. She giggled. _How the mighty have fallen_, he mused. Before, he would have had her screaming.

It was a small party; just family. He didn't think that he recognized any faces, other than those of the Comte and Comtesse. Of course, he also recognized their child. He would have to be blind to miss seeing Christine's face, in miniature, topped by Raoul's hair.

"Marie! C'vous plait, ma petite, leave the tree alone!" called an angel's voice. Erik shuddered. Her voice was as beautiful as always. He had hoped that perhaps he didn't love her any more; he was wrong. He would still die, or kill, at that voice's command.

Of course, the woman the voice came with didn't know that. She just hoped that he would entertain at her command. He walked up to the glowing couple that stood embracing guests.

Raoul and Christine froze when they saw him. Their minds screamed at the sight of his mask. Christine recovered first, and held out her hand. He held it lightly, bowed over it quickly but elegantly, and dropped it like a red-hot coal. Holding it for even a second longer would have been the first step towards slaying the guests and carrying her off.

"You must be the magician," she said with false cheer. "Herr Drolmeyer, was it?"

"Drosselmeyer, actually," he replied, easily disguising his voice. He made it lower and more nasal, and added a hint of a Russian accent. His voice has always obeyed his commands.

"Yes, well. As soon as everyone is settled, we'd like your show to begin. Is there anything you will need?" He wanted to applaud her; he had wonderful acting skills. Only one who knew her very well indeed could tell that she was deeply worried. She knew that he could change his voice; she knew that the shape of the nose on his mask didn't really matter. He would have hoped that she knew she had nothing to fear from him, but then, she always was a child.

"I have left three boxes by the back door, madame. I would appreciate it if someone could bring them in. They are quite heavy." He had decided to take another page out of Tchaikovsky's book; his main entertainment was living dolls. Of course, his were actual life-size automatons, not stiffly moving ballerinas.

"Of course, of course," she replied. Sensing her discomfort, he withdrew to a dark corner with another bow, clearly hearing them whisper.

"Pierre recommended him! That idiot, he didn't tell me his precious magician wore a mask!" whispered Raoul. He wasn't as good at acting as Christine; he had stared at Erik in abject horror the entire time.

"Raoul, Erik is not the only person in the world who wears a mask. His voice is completely different; I would know." She decided not to tell him that Erik could change his voice as easily as his mask. "Besides, can you really see the Phantom of the Opera entertaining at Christmas parties?"

"How can I even trust what you're saying? You could be under his spell again! He could be controlling you, I know that he can! We should call the police!" Erik wanted to hit the boy. After a terrifying ordeal, marriage, and parenthood, he still hadn't grown up.

"Raoul! I will forgive you for saying that because I know you're frightened. Really, though, the idea is silly! All of that happened years ago. I won't hear another word of this, we're going to enjoy this party and that is that!" She whirled over to the butler, asking him to send someone for Herr Drosselmeyer's boxes.

Erik chuckled to himself. She was really an excellent actress. Even as she convinced her husband that the masked magician wasn't Erik, she became certain. Her eyes had met his from across the room, and he knew that she knew.

* * *

The children sat wide-eyed at his feet; the adults stood wide-eyed behind them. He smirked behind the mask at how easily amused they were. All he was doing was levitating a "magic wand." Christine was staring at him with a peculiar intensity; Raoul was staring at him with a mixture of fascination, belligerence, and terror.

He beckoned a three-year-old girl forward. It was Marie, Raoul and Christine's daughter. She stared at him in wide-eyed amazement—just like her mother once had. He passed his hands over the wand, and it turned into a live white rose, stripped of thorns, and still floating in midair. He lowered it so that it was just within her reach, and with a squeal of glee she grabbed it. She pulled it away easily; there were no strings attached.

Finally, the first of his boxes was brought in. Two footmen had been struggling under its weight; he simply picked it up and put it in the center of the semicircle of children, motioning them to back up a bit.

Inside the box was a mechanical clown. He motioned for it to leave the box, and it did, with smooth motions. It did a little dance, comically falling over, getting up with a rueful look at the audience. All of the children laughed and squealed but one little boy of about five years old, who was apparently Raoul's nephew.

"It's nothin' but a person! That's not magic!" he yelled.

"Really?" asked Erik softly, in a voice a bit closer to his usual one. "Then come up here and prove it."

The boy nervously walked forward, reaching up to the frozen clown. With a show of bravado, he rapped his little fist against the clown's leg. A distinctive metallic clanging echoed through the room. The eyes of the parents widened; they had been sure that it was someone in costume.

"What is your name?" Erik asked the boy.

"F-F-Fritz, monsieur magician."

"Well, go sit down, Fritz. And remember, never question a magician."

The show continued uneventfully. The clown was taken away, and a ballerina was brought out. Erik wondered if Christine noticed the ballerina's similarity to Meg Giry, or the clown's resemblance of Richard Firmin. His creativity was gone; all he could do was echo.

The final doll was a soldier that looked strangely like the Compte, who of course did not notice. It delighted all the boys, especially Fritz, who had yawned his way through the ballerina's performance.

Finally, the show was done. All of the children were gazing with adoring eyes at Erik, which had been very strange for him when he first became a magician, although he was getting used to it.

"Eri—Herr Drosselmeyer, we have gifts for all of the children; would you please give them out?" Christine asked. "This bag is for the boys, and this one is for the girls."

"Of course, madame," he replied. She certainly did know who he was!

The gift-givers apparently lacked creativity almost as much as he did. All of the girls got dolls; all the boys got something military, either tin soldiers, a hobbyhorse, a drum, or a bugle. Erik winced as they began to make noise. He couldn't make music any more, but he could appreciate it, and keenly note its absence.

Finally, the only child left was Marie. She was the youngest; everyone had been reaching over her head. In the bag, there was…nothing!

"Ah—Madame de Chagny—we appear to be one present short," he called. Marie's big eyes, so like Christine's, filled with tears.

"Oh, dear! I, um, we, oh please ma petite, don't cry! You'll get presents tomorrow!" Christine wrung her hands helplessly. Marie's eyes threatened to overflow. "Eri—Herr Drosselmeyer, can't you do something?" He sighed to himself; she was still a child as well.

"Of course, madame," he replied. Why not carry this plagiarism to its logical conclusion? He reached into his cloak and pulled out a nutcracker that he had used in one of his tricks, levitating nuts into its mouth.

"Here, child! Look at this!" Dealing with children still wasn't exactly his area of expertise. "It's just like a doll, but you can crack nuts with it!" Her eyes widened and dried instantly, and she took the nutcracker from him, running off to show her friends.

"Thank you so much," said Christine.

"My pleasure," he replied.

She reached out a hand, as if to touch him on the arm. He held his breath.

Just then, they heard a wooden-sounding CRACK! They looked over and saw a bawling Marie and a triumphant Fritz, who had just jumped on the nutcracker. They rushed over, Christine to comfort Marie and Erik to salvage what remained of the nutcracker.

There wasn't much left. It had been split right in half. Luckily, he had an identical spare in his cloak. He had expected this night to rob him of what remained of his sanity and possibly his life; he didn't realize it would take all his nutcrackers as well.

"Here, Marie!" he said. "Watch!" He picked up the pieces of the old one, then tucked them into his cloak, pulling out the new one. "I fixed it!"

Tears forgotten, Marie squealed with glee—again—and grabbed the nutcracker, holding it close. Fritz was being led away by his father and scolded for breaking his cousin's present.

The party continued, with the girls cooing over their dolls and the boys marching around, pretending to be soldiers. Erik was about to make his escape—being in this house was exquisite torture—when Christine walked over.

"Please, Eri—Herr Drosselmeyer, don't leave. It seems that we can't manage without you," she said, with a bit of a forced laugh. He never could deny her anything.

"Certainly, madame," he replied. She was about to say something, but had to run off to keep Marie from swallowing one of the Christmas tree's ornaments. The child was a terror; she had her parents wrapped around her finger. Children can't raise children, Erik mused.

_Why did she ask me to stay?_ Erik wondered. Raoul had apparently forgotten all about him, and was downing yet another glass of eggnog.

"LETS SING CHRISTMAS CAROLS!" he bellowed tipsily. All of the children jumped up and down, running to the piano. Christine laughed—Erik loved that laugh—and sat down at the piano. The parents walked over as well.

Christine's voice soared over the good-natured din of the others, almost as beautiful as Erik remembered it. Childbirth had changed it a bit, as had three years without his guidance, or even practice, but it was still beautiful.

He sat in a dark corner, hidden behind a grandfather clock, and wept silent tears behind his mask.

* * *

Finally, a bit after eleven, the guests began to leave. Some of them carried sleeping children; some were supporting their inebriated spouses. Normally, Erik would have been long gone by now, but Christine told him to stay. He would do so until she told him to leave.

She appeared to have forgotten him, though; when the last guest left, she glanced around the room with a sigh, and then carried Marie upstairs. Raoul followed, only slightly unsteady on his feet.

Erik stayed. What else could he do? Christine asked him not to leave. From the shadows behind the grandfather clock, he watched the maids clean up and walk away. Nothing happened; he would have grown bored, if not for the knowledge that Christine was right upstairs.

Finally, Marie walked downstairs, looking for her nutcracker, which she had left under the tree. She picked it up, then curled up on the couch with it, falling back to sleep.

Soon, she began to whimper with a nightmare. She looked so much like a tiny Christine that Erik couldn't bear it. He walked over and sat beside her on the couch, and for the first time in three years, he began to hum.

His music seemed to have returned, but he still couldn't think of anything original; he hummed music from the second act of Tchaikovsky's _Nutcracker Suite_. She calmed down. Of course, he didn't know exactly what her dream was showing her, but perhaps candy was dancing around her, as in the ballet. If it wasn't for her hair, and her very young age, he could believe that he was weaving a dream for Christine, as he had so often.

Then he heard a gasp and a clunk. He turned around.

Christine was standing on the stairs, hands clapped over her mouth, eyes wide with shock, presents piled at her feet. She must have been carrying them down to put under the tree.

"Hello, Comtesse," he said, wincing inwardly, picturing the scene as it must look to her. A terrifying murderer was sitting next to her sleeping three-year-old. Christine returned to her old standby for stressful situations; she fainted.

Erik kept humming, unable to do anything but ensure sweet dreams for Christine and her child, and to gently move the presents under the tree.

He stood a while in contemplation when he completed his task. Dare he move Christine to the couch? She could not possibly be comfortable on the floor. On the other hand, if he picked her up, he could very well walk right out the door with her.

His control was always perfect, except when she was involved.

Before he could reach a decision, her eyelids fluttered open.

"Oh…Erik…" she laughed nervously. "Did you put the presents under the tree? Thank you, that was so thoughtful."

"Think nothing of it," he replied. "I apologize for giving you such a fright, but you did ask me to stay, if you recall."

"I did," she agreed.

They were silent for a moment.

"How have—" she started to ask, just as he began, "How is—"

Christine giggled nervously.

"How is married life, Comtesse?" he asked.

"Oh, I enjoy it, I suppose," she said. "I love Marie dearly, of course."

"And Raoul?"

"Him as well, certainly."

"He treats you well, I hope?" He almost hoped that she would say no, that she would cry that she did not love Raoul after all and beg him to take her back to the Opera House…madness was slipping back into him.

"Very," she said firmly.

"Good."

Again there was a silence.

"How have you been?" she asked.

"I have survived," he said.

"Good." She knew that she sounded foolish, as vacuous as any high-society lady useful only as ornamentation. She almost wanted to throw herself at his feet, to beg him to bring her back to a life that didn't consist of dull morning beauty rituals followed by a day of polite chatter and ended by routine lovemaking, brightened only by a willful child.

"Why did you ask me to stay, Christine?" he asked, and he knew instantly that saying her name had been a mistake. His voice wavered, turning what should have been a polite inquiry into a plea.

_Because I'm empty without you_, she didn't say. "I…I don't really know," she told him.

_I'm dead without you_, he didn't say. "I suppose that I should go then."

"I suppose."

There was silence, broken only by a sleepy murmur from Marie.

"Goodbye, then," he said. _Don't make me go!_

"Goodbye." _Don't leave me!_

He closed the door just as the grandfather clock chimed one, and Marie stirred to wakefulness.

"Mommy?" she asked sleepily.

"Yes, dear?" Christine replied, careful not to let the tears streaming down her face enter her voice.

"I dreamed a dream, mommy," she said. "First it was scary, but then it was so magic and beautiful…"

"I had that dream once too," Christine said. "Waking up hurts a bit, doesn't it?"

"Mmm," agreed Marie, already falling back to sleep.

Tenderly, Christine carried her child back up to bed.


End file.
